A draft blew in sending a shiver up her spine, synapses shooting across her pale, bare skinned back. It was always cold there but she didn’t mind it so much, she was too preoccupied with her perfect little white lines. Arranging them in order, if nostrils could salivate – her’s would be by this point.
Everyday we try a little harder to fit into the mold of societal acceptance, soceity isn’t an indentation therefore we’ll never fit into a mold that isn’t actually there and the silly thing is how we seek solace in finding something that’s not there. In the course of finding ourselves, we learn how easy it is to condemn a God rather than a man appearing as such, but in the end everyone dies – even idols. Out of our melancholy addiction to self-affliction, other addictions are discovered to ease the need for acceptance. Addiction is a broad, enveloping rabbit hole of self-destruction/revelation. For some, the escape from themselves is a catalyst for self-exploration and other’s it is a tad worse.
She went in for a sniff, her spine shot up after one line and she started blinking rapidly. The cocaine overtook her by the third line and cloud nine blew by.
Preservation was a thing of the past, destruction ushered in hope to be free.
Her nostrils flared wide open, the comfortable numbness set in and bravado ignited. Under the right light at the right angle in the mirrored table, a reflection of a beautiful failure could be seen – and through another angle a broken angel replaced the reflection.
Some say every action must be justified by a moral explanation and depending on the morality – a proper reaction must occur to bring an end to the means and restore a balance in the cosmic sphere of everyday living. Her reaction to end her means to fit in would be violent.
A tear glistened down her porcelain cheeks, she wiped it away quickly, as she believed tears were evident to weakness which she was undeniably full of yet repressed. She yearned for that acceptance, for the ability to create something beautiful and be recognized for it and to feel proud of herself. She couldn’t wait to stop being so strong, rather she wanted to stop lying to herself about not being weak. Although she knew all this, no one could hear her crying for hours late at night, the unborn creation she’d never be proud of echoed in her mind. She sometimes walked through the desolate city at night trying to run away from the restless tears, tears that poured over her like sweet sweat for eveyone to see how much pain she was in, nobody cared or noticed.
Sometimes you have to break yourself apart to create something new, sometimes you just need to hit rockbottom. And sometimes you need to have 32 stiches sewn into your wrists after a cataclysmic suicide attempt with a kitchen knife to help you see life a bit brighter, or would the neon world still look just as grimy as before? Maybe filthier.
The almost-suicide scene was a running shower, clotted drain with her hair as she lie in the tub half filled with water and blood. A few minutes longer and the tub would have overflowed and she would have drowned in a literal bloodbath as the cut was so intensely deep that she lost a full three quarts of blood in the incident.
She was found by the landlord, it just so happens he’d gotten his nerve up to demand three months of delayed payments. After having kicked the door down and confiscating the cocaine on the table for himself, he dialed 911 and saved her. After the paramedics had arrived and removed her, after she was identified as the missing daughter of a big time insurance company executive, after he was notified that his daughter wasn’t actually dead but was merely a runaway – her father paid every bill she’d never be able to afford.
Her father arranged for her to stay in a minimum security asylum of sorts, to be cared for under the assumption that everyone else was being treated as well as she was so she didn’t sense his involvement or compassion. She’d be angry if she knew someone cared about her. She’d be angry because she forgot what it feels like to care, because she built herself into mechanism of self-reliability. How could she count on anyone if she didn’t trust anyone, their eyes said it all, all their eyes did was watch how attractive she’d grown with age. She feared the eyes, their desire to love.fuck.abuse.destroy.manipulate.destroy.seduce.destroy.infiltrate.destroy.care for.destroy.fall for.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.
destroy.destroy.destroy….. This was her life, fearing herself, fearing all. A life of fear she’d only admit was developed out of hurt from another that never existed. This was her pitiful life that not a soul cared about. This was her life and it was meaningless because she said so.
Does it really matter as to her flaming little shit of a life? Not statistically. Does it make anyone sad to know a desperate for attention, sad little girl tried to slice the veins out of her forearms and survived? Not a soul cares, so why drag on in a manner of publically acknowledging that someone without faith in nearly living died? People like to hear about suffering, especially if it’s based off semi-factual information… This was her life, it ended before she knew she was loved. This is your life, take from it what you can before you lose it all.
